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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30085920">Uncontrollable</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med'>Lyssandra_Med</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>One-Shot [88]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ginger Snaps (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Brigitte Gives In, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Sexual Violence, Sister/Sister Incest, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:54:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30085920</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginger asks a question that Brigitte doesn't know how to answer, <i>yet.</i></p><p>---</p><p>Or; I read the original script for Ginger Snaps and liked that premise more than the actual movie. (although I still love the movie, and the sequel)<br/>Or; I read the original script and the subtext was a lot less like subtext and more like <i>actual</i> text.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brigitte Fitzgerald/Ginger Fitzgerald</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>One-Shot [88]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429282</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Uncontrollable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>unedited.<br/>this pairing is rly low on Ao3, huh.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ginger was never going to be something simple. She could have been anything, and she became something <em>outside </em>of that definition. She was something that Brigitte could never shake. She was all feeling and twisted, <em> luscious </em>desire. She was all staring eyes that gleamed with red and gold, inhuman blue. She was a loose tooth in Brigitte’s mouth, a rotting abscess where her heart should have been. She was an itch she couldn’t scratch, and perhaps that said it all; they were <em> fucked up </em>with one another before the end, the beginning, before one of them ran off on four legs instead of two. Ginger was also protection and possession. She was a stalwart companion, her shield, the only one of them competent enough, <em> angry </em>enough, to fight back. Never variable, always constant.</p><p>Until she wasn’t, and her place in Brigitte’s life had become so mutable that it seemed she could lose out on Ginger entirely. She hadn’t. Instead, she’d become more. She’d become a pair of eyes that looked out with heat, a <em> desire </em>that Brigitte couldn’t shake.</p><p>It was evident in the way that Ginger would push her buttons, <em> undo her buttons, </em> climb atop her abdomen with a wet mouth, sticky fingers, lips dripping red and smelling of fetid, sickly sweet honey. Saccharine cyanide. Tolerable self-destruction.</p><p>Mutable and reliable, a desire Brigitte felt so hard she <em>burned. </em> Ginger’s body curled atop her own, dominating the space between them even as she whispered, reminded, <em> insinuated </em>that they weren’t even related; different species, different strokes for different folks. Ginger just <em>exists </em>within that moment. Monstrous and loving. She’s a roiling heat that bubbles beneath fur-covered skin, and she <em>pours </em>herself into the kisses she delivers. Trails them up from Brigitte’s chest, her neck, her chin, teasing open lips. Leaving them both panting. <em> Needful. </em> Ginger is just <em> Ginger, </em> and she’s always been <em> Ginger </em>but not this <em>open </em>about it. She’s laughing, and she’s crying; she’s peering back at the body in the corner of the room and asking questions. Brigitte has no answer, has the only one that matters. She has completion on the tip of her tongue in a way that Ginger had always wanted and felt ashamed to ask.</p><p>An animal has no shame, and so she asks her question again and again.</p><p>She had never meant for Sam’s body to fool them all for long and, even if it had, Brigitte had been confident that the trail of bodies they were leaving behind them - <em> corpses instead of breadcrumbs, pets and humans, animals all torn from the forest and then left strewn, in bloody pieces, across perfectly coiffured lawns </em> - will push them both ever onwards. Searching, roaming, looking for a space to call their own, some distant <em>not- </em> home, <em> not- </em>safety. </p><p>Ginger keeps asking. Asks again when they’re seventeen or they’re dead, <em> when they’re eighteen or they’re dead, and then </em><b><em>it’s nineteen or they’re dead-</em> </b></p><p>Nineteen and they’re meeting in the middle, so alive, burning toxic fumes, and Brigitte finally answers <em>yes. </em></p><p>She whispers it into an ear more pointed than her own, says <em> ‘I will’. </em> Swapping blood from cuts and purpled bruises, the scent of each other’s dew, sharing more than just a bite. They burn so brightly in the sky that they can outshine everything around them for miles on, snuffing out everyone else until they’ve built a stretch of darkness, a shared nothingness. They had been sixteen or dead, and then Ginger had taken that motto just a tad too literally. They were nineteen or dead, and Brigitte had decided to, finally, join her. Putting off the inevitable had been fun while it lasted, and then it hadn’t. Boring. Tiring.</p><p>Joining her sister in running around at night, in the cold, wearing a pair of stolen shorts and a tank top riding up to reveal her scarred belly was <em>better. </em> Long cuts, piercings, a bruised tableau of their time together where she’d remained so restrained and afraid. </p><p>An epitaph for the graves they’d left behind in quaint suburbia. </p><p>They were nineteen and alive, Ginger in her arms, Brigitte her only devotee. It didn’t fix everything. It made some things harder. Made her breasts seem quaint when she started changing, her body rapidly declining into something feral. Made her lips seem useless when her teeth were too large, too <em>sharp, </em> to stay hidden in her mouth. </p><p>But Ginger was a lovely teacher, and Brigitte learned quickly. Remembered snippets of their past life. Remembered the euphoric feeling of being locked away downstairs with her hand down her sweatpants and wondering, remotely, if Ginger would ever catch her. She wondered if anyone would ever catch them and swiftly excised that thought from her mind. No one would find them here on the edges of a no-name town, in this bed. <em> Their </em>bed. Their faces turned to one another and <em>wrong </em>but not unloved. <em> Desired. </em> Cries repeated, <em> repeating, </em> a repetition of their past. </p><p>Brigitte remembered the night that Ginger had taken someone into her bed, left Brigitte in the bathroom with her hands down her skirt while she wondered if it was worth it to see her sister and the fucktoy in the midst of it. She’d wondered how good it had felt back then, and now she had the chance to know. </p><p>She screamed, howled.</p><p>Those memories turned to action, turned into a stinging pain along the length of her spine as something forced its way outside of her body. The pain turned into cutting ribbons of red and white. Shredded fur, <em> flesh. </em> Breaking apart into the smallest of pieces and then, with Ginger, recombining into something new and horrid. Nineteen and she awoke from a week spent beneath a baser mind, a new Brigitte all set on categorising the world into things she wanted to keep and things she wanted to eat.</p><p>Things she wanted, things Ginger wanted, leaching from one another until what they wanted and what they needed were the same.</p><p>Then they were twenty or dead, and not dead yet. A new moniker in a new town and a pitstop that neither one of them had wanted. Their past had come back to rear its ugly, fur-covered head. It howled at them from the outskirts of the boarded-up hotel they’d made into a nest. It was a voice that they’d last heard years ago and one neither wanted to remember. Guttural screaming, a thing with a broken mind. It didn’t have the <em>balance </em>that they shared, or the heavenly feeling of another’s mind - <em> and skin and claw and tongue and cunt and blood </em> - to buoy its own. It had one thing on its mind, and neither of them were willing to entertain its desire.</p><p>They were - <em> one person, one sister, one lover, one pack, one family, two fucked up halves of the same trick coin, both their sides the same and neither knowing who had tossed them into the air </em> - fucking, biting, howling, deep in the throes of their last chance to find some - <em> food, shelter, money, transportation out of this fucking hellhole of a hick-filled town </em>  - way North before winter set in fully. It was still coming for them, sprinting even. </p><p>Ginger was still coming with Brigitte’s fingers buried into her past the third knuckle, curling, teasing breathless pants and growls past pale, discoloured lips. Ginger was still coming into her time of the month with a face that was some broken caricature of lupine humanity. The beast was still coming after them, and then it was Brigitte with her claws digging in Ginger’s ghost-white hair, a too-wide tongue buried inside of her and blood leaking down her sides, her back, her thighs.</p><p>They were - <em> powerful, wicked, tuned into the beast at the centre of their hearts </em> - tired, and that <em>thing </em>was following them. It was - <em> rabid, male, horny, fucked up and fucked out, a last born remnant of bad decisions, angry and </em><b><em>hurting</em> </b><em>and </em><b><em>broken, </em> </b> <em> searching for a sire that it barely half-remembered, trying to bury its prick into something warm </em> - never going to stop searching for them.</p><p>It would never leave them alone, and so they welcomed it. They opened the door for it, greeted it in bodies wholly inhuman. </p><p>Feasted on it, Brigitte suddenly remembering the way their neighbours' pets had looked as Ginger slowly, methodically, eliminated them.</p><p>They were alive or they were dead, a whisper; an unsolved mystery, two locks hooked and hitched to one another for all eternity.</p>
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